


An Almighty Hog Roast

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, References to Alcohol, a lot of innuendos and not a lot else, hog roast au, javert is a butcher, valjean is a bartender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4512546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you’d say you’ve got quite a large one?” - “Pretty hefty, yes.” </p><p>In Javert's line of work, a man with muscles isn't rare. But then there's Valjean, who's beauty, who's grace, and could probably punch Javert in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Almighty Hog Roast

**Author's Note:**

> Important note: If it looks like a dick joke, it's a dick joke. 
> 
> I wrote most of this while at an event this story was based on. You wouldn't believe the innuendos that fly over a butcher's head.

Javert side-eyed the two setting up next to his gazebo and frowned. He hadn't been informed there would be a bar. He longed to move his gazebo along the garden, away from the inevitable hoards of people who'd be crowding around the bar in the endless quest for alcohol.

It was too late now, he eventually had to admit, the hog was in the oven, too heavy and too hot to move on his own. His Saturday staff would arrive in a couple of hours to help serve, but then it would be too late, there would be customers waiting, watching, wondering why they were shifting along and away.

While the hog was in the oven, he could only sit and think- it was too early to prep the side salads, too soon to cut the rolls lest their crusts harden in the sun. His job for the next five hours was to occasionally check that the pig was cooking, the oven bearing its brunt.

He sighed. Perhaps the boys were right, he was too organised. No last minute arrangements to make, no jobs to take care of. He found himself watching the bar being set up.

Behind it were a man and a girl, both in ratty t-shirts and joggers, both with long hair tied in messy buns. Their demeanor and rapport told of a familial relationship, but the man's darker, tanner skin and the girl's lighter said something else. Perhaps she was adopted.

They looked just about as rushed as he did, with their calm cutting of various citrus fruit into plastic containers, sharing jokes as they wiped already impeccably clean glasses. Javert itched to wipe down his surfaces again. The longer he watched them, the stronger his desire to scratch.

Ten minutes in, he grabbed his bucket, walking into the house on a search for hot water. By the time he'd returned, the bartenders had finished with their glasses and were starting on hacking up pineapples. Javert frowned. He wondered where on earth they would be putting pineapples. As he passed, he stole a glance at the blackboard they had set up in front of their table and his frown deepened as he read it.

He'd not heard of half of the drinks on the board. He wondered what had happened to a good old-fashioned glass of red. Not that he particularly enjoyed wine, but it was the principle of the thing.

It wasn't as if the hosts of the party were young; some old Bourgeois named Gillenormand and his middle-aged daughter. He'd heard reference of a dear nephew, but by the way the old man had talked of him in a cooing, highly praising tone, the boy couldn't be older than knee high.

Or so he thought, until the daughter came outside, holding a handful of balloon numbers, almost larger than herself. Unless the nephew was turning 81, this party was turning out to be a birthday Javert would really rather miss- he looked at the bar again, behind which rested a couple dozen bottles of vodka, a few barrels of beer and crates of wine.

He shuddered. Drunk teenagers. Great. What more could he wish for on a Sunday evening? Though, he admitted, scrubbing a spot of grease he hadn't noticed before, drunk adults tended to be roudier. And handsier. He shuddered at the memory of last weekend's guests, a pack of wolves who'd first devoured the pig, then followed it up with questions as to his single-ness.

Yes, this was his business, a family butchers, oh just down the road, ma'am, two other branches, yes, no it didn't mean he had a family, he had Saturday boys and manageresses, yes he did find that women tended to be better in such roles, no, he didn't judge his workers on appearance, but on ability, yes, he was a feminist, no, he wasn't wearing a ring, no, he wasn’t married.

He grimaced at the memory of the rest of the conversation.

"Are you okay?" asked a voice above his head and Javert startled to attention, jumping up from his crouch. He threw the grubby rag into the soapy bucket.

"Sorry?" he asked, though it came out more like an accusation.

It was the man from behind the bar, with an amused but apologetic smile on his face. "You looked like the tablecloth had just committed a grievous crime."

"Ah." Javert gritted his teeth, attempting to sooth his scowl into something more pleasant. "I was wondering what the occasion was," he explained, before realising this wouldn't mean much to the man, whose expression said as much. "I was trying to decide whether I hated drunk teenagers or adults more."

The man laughed, as if startled by the admission, but nodded. "I know the feeling." He shifted slightly closer, conspiratorial hand cupping his mouth as he stage-whispered. "Drunk widowers wondering if the staff is single?"

Oh God, this man knew Javert's pain- Javert could feel the relief on his face in a crude half-smile. "Always been afraid to tell the Saturday boys why I hated serving."

"I usually employ the 'dearest daughter Cosette would you mind grabbing the lemons?' it stalls them while they try to work out how I could be her father."

He could see the girl, Cosette, smile down at her work, trying hard to look like she wasn't eavesdropping. Javert nodded, satisfied by his earlier assumptions. At the man's curious tilt of the head, Javert scratched his elbow. "Afraid you weren't the only one watching the other working. You exude the father-daughter atmosphere."

As if to exemplify his point, father and daughter beamed, pleased to have been recognised as such, perhaps. Javert wondered, with a small sinking feeling, how often Cosette was mistaken for the salt-and-pepper haired man's young, Asian wife. As he thought it, he thought he could read it in the man's expression.

"Jean Valjean," the man introduced after a pause, holding out his hand.

"Javert." The shake was strong, both, Javert noticed, watching how the other man's arm muscles pulled. He smiled a little at the thought of that.

"And Cosette," Valjean said once they'd let go, released arm swinging back to gesture at the girl. "Javert," he called over slightly louder, earning Javert a pleased wave from the girl. "Not that she wasn't listening the first time," he said slightly quieter, though still pantomiming a whisper.

Javert's toothy grin emerged as Cosette turned a shade of rose pink, head bent further down as she pretended to get back to work.

"Anyway," Valjean said, laugh in his tone, "I should leave you to your scrubbing."

"Right." Javert realised some of the tenseness in his shoulders had relaxed as he'd been talking and he tightened up again as Valjean waved a little and turned back to rejoin his daughter.

'Widowers,' Javert realised Valjean had said. He wondered, slightly red-faced, when he started being so easy to read.

-

Javert was sat on his cooler box, wiping down his knives when a group of young men and women, dressed head to toe in black and white outfits fit for butlers, descended on the garden carrying chairs and tables. He snorted as he overheard one of the girls ask ‘Monsieur’ Gillenormand how he wanted the tables set up. So the man had hired wait staff too- this really was an all-out event.

He made to share a derisive glance with Valjean; surely he would think it obscene too, but he found the bar empty. When he looked back, Valjean and Cosette were trooping out with the others, the girl carrying a couple of chairs, Valjean an entire oak table. That would explain the muscles, then.

He watched for a second before reluctantly standing. It wouldn’t do to just watch as everyone else did the work. Plus, he was bored. He joined the line of worker ants and hefted what was given to him, occasionally helping Cosette or one of the weaker staff members when they’d overestimated their own strength.

By the time they’d set out the twenty tables for their two hundred guests, the August sun was directly above them, beating down and causing a sweated epidemic. Javert sighed, stretching out his back. So much for resting.

A hand clapped him on the back, Valjean smiling at him like he hadn’t just done most of the work himself. Javert had to admit that he had a new appreciation for the man. Javert was strong, almost entirely built of muscle from years of hefting entire cow carcasses and heavy machinery, and yet here this man was, a bartender, who looked like he could carry twice as much as Javert and pop a couple of chairs on top for good luck.

Javert watched as the man walked past him, back to the bar, rolling his shoulders slightly to warm them down. Valjean had to be older than Javert, even in his impeccable physical condition- his hair was more silver than dark, and the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. His hands, when they’d briefly touched in order to carry a heavy load together, had been hard, scarred and calloused from years of hard work, matching Javert’s.

He was hot, though, Javert thought, smiling to himself as he sat back down on the cooler box. It felt like a victory for his generation, to have someone like Valjean on his side of the mid-life crisis. Javert went back to wiping his knives until an ice-cold glass pressed against his forehead.

He didn’t startle this time, but he did breathe sharply, attempting not to stab the offender (surprise, Valjean again,) in the leg. “I got you some water.” Valjean held out the glass now, grin smug. Ahh, Javert realised, Valjean acted the saintly older man, but was really a little shit.

“Thank you.” Javert accepted the glass and chugged half of it, being in a constant state of dehydration. He never wanted to ask the host for water, and his plastic bottles emptied quickly after he’d been setting up. He set aside the rest for later, though he already regretted that by the time he got to it, it would be lukewarm. After a moment, he looked up at Valjean, who was still hovering over him.

“Did you- want something?” Javert asked. He doubted, glancing around at the garden of worker who now held their own glasses, that Valjean was a man who would make him pay for the drink, but what other reason would there be to remain?

“Pontes & Co., huh,” Valjean read, looking at the logo emblazoned on Javert’s work shirt and apron. “Javert Pontes?”

Javert couldn’t help the scowl that formed. “Just Javert. Pontes was my shitstain of a father. I inherited the shop when it was a mouldy fridge and a broken butcher’s block. Never creative enough to change the name.”

Valjean whistled out an impressed breath. “And now you’re serving hog-roast to the high and mighty. Well Javert, you’ve done well for yourself, I’d say.”

Javert allowed himself the smile, proud. He’d left his dad and his literally festering business at fifteen, having worked there since he’d been old enough to hold a knife, hopping from other butcher’s shops until they all started to close down, the only jobs showing up in supermarkets, behind counters shared with fishmongers and cheeses.

His dad’s death had been a saving grace in more than one way- Javert had had enough stashed away to completely strip the shop and build it from its bones, rebranding it in a clean black and white. Javert had been the nearest he’d ever been to crying tears of happiness when the last of the red, white and blue paint (the colours of Crystal Palace, his dad’s favourite football team,) were scrubbed away.

It hadn’t been as simple as that, of course, he’d had to convince everyone that he was nothing like his father, not selling overpriced, undersized chunks of meat, not spitting in anyone’s chuck steak, not cutting the mould off of older chickens. Javert was a butcher by the book, and damn anyone who thought otherwise. His meat was cut with no waste. His eggs were fresh from a farm literally three minute’s walk up the road. He run a tight ship in the shop and on excursions like this. It had been a long, uphill climb, but he’d finally made it. The thought still made his throat ache with emotion.

God, he’d made it and he couldn’t let it sink now. Every event had to be perfect. No burnt hog, no shitty salads, smiles anywhere and everywhere. Javert had been told customers appreciated that kind of thing. He even threw in a ‘yes sir, no sir,’ routine. He cleared his throat, thankful that Valjean seemed content to let him reminisce for a few seconds.

“May I?” Valjean asked, suddenly, pointing at the other half of the metre-long cooler. Javert half stood, confused, but nodded anyway, not really sure what Valjean was asking until he sat, arm to arm next to Javert. Valjean had his own drink, Javert noticed, a water like his own. Valjean’s was dripping condensation and the man wiped his hand against his sweatpants.

“Have you always been a bartender?” Javert asked, thinking again on those muscles. He was far from an expert, but bar staff tended to be slim, did they not? And lithe, looking like shoots rather than like- well- bears. Valjean would make a good bear, neatly trimmed beard, dark skin and all.

Valjean leaned back slightly, far enough that Javert couldn’t see his expression unless he were to turn around and face him. Instead, Javert watched two young waiters attempt to duct tape a tablecloth down against the light breeze.

“Originally a tree-pruner. Hence…” Javert snorted at Valjean’s flex. He really was a little shit.

“Tree-pruner’s a long stretch from this.”

“Tried business for a while when I took in Cosette,” Valjean continued. “Quit it all to became a man of the cloth, be closer to her as she grew up. Once she did, friend of mine used to own the hired-bar business, I temped for him, then inherited it when he died.”

“Religious man?” Quite a few people their age wore crosses around their necks, Javert knew, so he hadn’t been too taken aback by Valjean’s when he’d tucked it back under his shirt when it had slipped out earlier, but… “Church to Barwork, seems slightly…”

“Strange,” Valjean laughed. “So I’m told. It was a convent, really, and I did more gardening than teaching.”

Javert faked a flex of his own. “More pruning.”

“More pruning,” Valjean agreed. Javert wondered what Valjean sounded like when he wasn’t happy- it must be horrible to have to hear the man’s voice without the ever-present hint of a laugh. It made Javert want to smile, damn it, which was rare in and of itself. “I like this though. Never a boring event.” He glanced at Javert, who very obviously looked like he wanted to object and relented. “Infuriating, maybe, but never boring.”

Javert’s leg bounced up and down, a telling tick he could never get rid of. He turned to Valjean, considering. He hadn’t known the man long, but from this morning alone, he knew Valjean would go out of his way to help people, to never let a second go unused. He thought about his own events, where he would set up in a corner of a garden and stick to it, never venturing away from his own responsibilities. He would be bored, but then, he was only doing his job. Valjean probably had a different interpretation of ‘responsibilities’, that encompassed the entire event, despite his not hosting it. As far as Javert was concerned, it was the host’s responsibility to organise their day, and if they’d done a shit job, well then that wouldn’t be Javert’s fault.

Javert bit back a ‘you’re infuriating’, because he wasn’t ten years old. Instead he hummed, acquiescing, realising how hard it must be to be so nice all the time. “Is Cosette your only kid?” he asked instead, needing to derail the conversation before it plummeted in a lecture Javert could already feel in his bones. (“You needn’t work so hard for them,” he would say, and Valjean would look very affronted indeed.)

“Her mother, Fantine, I didn’t know her for long, but she was like a daughter to me too.”

Well, Javert thought, that certainly brought a downer on the mood. He chastised himself. Valjean would be the type of man to have already mentioned his other brilliant kids if he had wanted to. Javert leaned forwards, away from Valjean so that his elbows rested on his knees and his chin in his palms.

“What about yourself?”

Javert had seen the question coming, but he still snorted. “No.”

“That’s quite the decisive answer.”

“I’m quite a decisive man.”

“Oh I hadn’t realised,” Valjean enthused, making Javert smile again.

“You’d better act fast, old man,” Javert replied, slowly, smugly. “Or else your precious daughter will be bearing your grandkids.”

Javert had the satisfaction of watching Valjean scramble to his feet, run in to Javert’s neatly laid-out table (not even bothering to fix it,) and slow to stride over at the boy who Javert had been watching make Cosette giggle for the last ten or so minutes.

Javert was amused to see Valjean bulking himself up as he talked, all trace of his kind smile lost into the void. The boy was about as big as Cosette, the two of them together probably weighed less than one of Valjean’s legs.

“My name is Marius Pontmercy,” the boy said, sounding for all the world like he hadn’t a clue his life was in immediate danger. He very happily stuck out his hand to be shaken, which was taken by Valjean and, if the boy’s bulging facial features were anything to go by, crushed his hand as they shook. Javert had to hand it to the boy, Marius didn’t so much as clutch at his inevitably injured hand once it was released, just let it hang limply against his side.

“I’m Cosette’s father,” Valjean smiled. “Jean Valjean.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Monsieur Valjean,” Marius beamed, a smile not at all hindered by the handshake. The boy probably thought Valjean couldn’t control his strength, had gripped too hard by accident.

“My grandfather sent me out to ask whether you had all of the equipment you needed? Cosette was telling me that you were all very prepared and hadn’t forgotten a single thing.”

Valjean squinted first at the boy, then at his daughter and nodded.

“Marius is Monsieur Gillenormand’s grandson, Papa.”

Javert disguised his laugh as a cough. Valjean had paled. He wasn’t even scowling anymore, just staring, blankly, at the boy. Something must have clicked in his brain, for his polite smile returned, slightly, and he nodded. “Well then, congratulations are in order. Happy birthday, my child.”

Javert bit his lip. Valjean’s emphasis on ‘child’ had made Cosette frown, an oblivious Marius spewing thanks and blushes over the top of the silent argument between daughter and father.

Javert liked this Valjean fellow. He was… interesting. A saint who knew how to tempt. A devil with a good heart. Javert let his eyes drop from watching the scene, turning around and directing his full attention to the hog-roasting machine behind him. He felt his cheeks heat, and not just from the 200 degree oven. Valjean was cute. Not like Cosette, for she, too, was cute, or like Marius, who echoed her puppy-like cuteness, but in a way Javert had not experienced before. In a ‘I would quite like to see Valjean out of his shirt’ way.

He nearly burnt his fingers on the scorching metal of the oven as he pretended to check how it was cooking, forgetting even to breathe as he heard Valjean laugh, a pitch lower than usual, probably still trying to threaten the boy but more low-key, allowing himself to be swayed by the boy’s humour.

Javert closed the lid with a firm clank, wiping the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve. He stole a glance at Valjean, to find Valjean watching him. They made eye contact, both winced, and they turned away.

It wasn’t long before Valjean had joined Javert again, this time carrying a bottle of water straight from their mini-fridge, offering to top up Javert’s glass. “How’s the son-in-law?” Javert asked, feigning indifference.

Valjean’s pleasant expression descended into clouds as he shared out the water. “He’s nice, but sounds a fool.”

“Apparently he’s to be a lawyer,” Javert recalled. “He can’t be too much of a moron.”

Valjean made an annoyed, throaty noise, halfway to a growl and sat, without waiting for an invite this time, back on his half of the cooler box. “Cosette is the one who knows how the kids talk these days.” Valjean’s voice adopted a withered tone, like he was thirty years older. “With their texting and their sexes on the beach.”

Javert’s grin reemerged, remembering the latter as one of the cocktail names. “Young Pontmercy seemed to like you.”

“I thought you were a nice man, Javert, but now I fear I shall have to kill you.”

“Oh really? I fear you’ll have brought a lemon juicer to a knife fight….” Javert’s hand came to rest on his butcher’s belt, brown leather lined with hilts carrying his carving, boning and vegetable knives. They were long, sharp and the shine to them made them glint.

Valjean gave them a wary look, but he edged closer, jokingly reaching for one. “I couldn’t borrow one, could I? Only there’s a teen trying to hit on my daughter.”

Javert laughed but his hand closed around his biggest knife, protecting them from being drawn. He thought he could trust this man but he didn’t want to risk finding out that Valjean was an axe-wielding criminal. Wouldn’t that just be Javert’s luck. “I doubt you’ll get a big tip if you kill Gillenormand’s favourite child.”

Valjean hmmed, not so subtly glancing over at the bar every couple of seconds. “So your hog,” Valjean said, eyes still on his daughter, “How long does it take to cook?”

“About eight hours for the whole hog.” Javert saw Valjean’s lip twitch into a smile at the go-to pun. “Depends on the weather, sometimes, and how big the legs are. This one’s got a lot of meat on her.”

“So you’d say you’ve got quite a large one?”

“Pretty hefty, yes.” Javert nodded.

“I’ve been to quite a few parties where the hog is quite small,” Valjean said. “The meat was quite dry.”

Javert snorted. He’d tasted quite a few dry hogs in his lifetime. "Rest assured, my meat is always succulent."

A shadow approached overhead, accompanied by a clearing of the throat. Javert looked and found two sheepish boys. His two sheepish boys, to be more exact.

"Sorry to interrupt," started Grantaire, looking positively flushed. "Whatever you were... er, talking about..."

Javert raised an eyebrow as Enjolras elbowed him in the side. "Not that we were trying to eavesdrop," Enjolras clarified, before letting Grantaire continue.

"It's only our uniforms are in the van, right?" Feeling like he was missing something, Javert dug the van keys out of his pocket and handed them over. "Hi, by the way," Grantaire said to Valjean with a small wave of the hand now clutching keys.

Valjean waved back, smiling his pleasant smile. "Afternoon."

"We're the old man's boys," Grantaire introduced, Enjolras cutting in with a quick "Saturday boys, not his sons. He isn't married, and hasn't got kids."

Grantaire burst into an eager grin then. He pocketed the keys, gave Javert a double thumbs up, winking in an overly dramatic way until Enjolras put a hand on his back and started to drag him away by his t-shirt. Javert frowned at them as they left, occasionally looking over their shoulders before returning to a heated conversation about something. Probably politics, knowing Enjolras.

"They seem... Nice?" Valjean arched an eyebrow, waving again as Grantaire did so, a gesture quickly curbed by Enjolras grabbing him and pulling him around a corner.

"I'm fairly sure they're not usually like this." Javert frowned, thinking. "Grantaire, the darker kid, he's usually loud, but I could've sworn he'd never dream of being early to an event..." Javert looked at his watch and his frown deepened further. When had it got so late?

Valjean had evidently mirrored him, looking at his own wrist. "I think that's my cue to get ready myself- your boys will be wanting you sooner or later."

“Ah. Yes.” Javert stood to watch Valjean go, deciding some sort of etiquette was needed, but not quite sure what. His mind circled through parting phrases; ‘have fun’, ‘goodbye’, ‘see you later’, ‘nice chat’, but couldn’t think before it was too late and Valjean had left. God, he probably came off as the rudest man alive.

He was still trying to decide what the best course of action would have been when Cosette and Valjean re-emerged from the house. Valjean was in a waistcoat now, black tie and white shirt with his sleeves rolled up. His bun had been redone, no longer hastily done up but scraped back neatly, tied with a black band.

Javert licked his lips. Well. He was glad his boys hadn’t returned, else he’d never let himself stare quite like he was doing at that exact moment in time. The t-shirt had been tight, sure, but Valjean had looked like a father in that- like a single dad dropping his kid off at school.

This Valjean was different. The purpose of this Valjean was to sell drinks. Open bar or not, Valjean was very obviously meant to attract attention. Whether or not he was doing it consciously, Valjean in a waistcoat far outshadowed Cosette, who seemed plainer, less visible now that she was wearing matching clothes. Even without his quite obvious bias, Javert could tell this had to have been Valjean’s intention- to hide his little girl from the lecherous drunkards who were probably abound in their line of work.

Javert suddenly felt strangely under-dressed, like he was unprepared for the party. He’d never felt so, in his polo and his work trousers, his cap and his apron, not for any customer, not for any event- who, after all, cared that the person carving their meat wasn’t wearing a tux?

Not for the first time that day, Valjean had made Javert feel insecure, and yet, not in an antagonistic kind of way, not in a competitive, which-server-served-better as Javert had had to admit he’d felt before. No, today, today Javert longed to impress Valjean on a purely personal level.

The depths Javert had fallen. Once again, he was glad to have had this revelation outside of Enjolras and Grantaire’s sight. They were not dull boys, they could pick up on any of Javert’s emotional shifts. Usually these shifts went from ‘annoyed’ to ‘bitter’ to ‘self-satisfied’, so Lord only knew how they’d react to seeing Javert like an over-eager puppy.

Only they had seen him.

The winking.

Oh god, the winking, the thumbs up, the ‘Javert is a single man with no ex’, they’d been casing Valjean, they’d been setting Javert up. He shut his mouth, which, he was alarmed to find, was gaping.

Grantaire and Enjolras would be on fridge-cleaning duty for the next month. Out of all the jobs in the butcher’s, fridge-cleaning was the one he liked to use most as punishment- to scrub the walls of dried blood, to be confined in a dark, cold space with pig’s heads and carcasses hanging off of hooks, to unhook bags of leaking guts… even cleaning the floors came second to cleaning the fridge. Javert smiled to himself. Yes. This would be adequate revenge.

He realised his mistake the moment he’d made it.

He was smiling to himself, grinning, quite sharkish in intent, while watching Valjean. Of course this would be when the boys in question would arrive, in their own uniforms, caps donned and aprons tied. Just in time to see the tail end of Javert’s grin, the shock, the guilt, the realisation.

At least Enjolras had the goddamn decency to avoid catching his eye.

“So you’ve got a crush on the hot muscle-y bartender huh?” Grantaire punched Javert on the arm. “Way to go, old man.”

“He looks respectable.” Enjolras crossed his arms, inspecting Valjean from afar.

“More than that,” Grantaire’s eyes were sparkling. “He’s hot as fuck and he’s doing the cool spinny thing.”

Javert’s attention returned to Valjean, who was indeed doing the spinny thing, practising picking up bottles of vodka, throwing them into the air, turning and catching, miming pouring the drinks into waiting glasses.

Once he’d done a few attempts, Grantaire started to applaud, whooping loudly when Valjean turned to them, mortified that he had been watched. He gave a small bow in the form of a nod of the head, Enjolras joining in on clapping.

Javert hung his own head and pretended like he hadn’t been watching. When he looked up, Valjean was being clapped on the back by Cosette, whose grin’s shit-eating level was on par with Grantaire’s.

-

By the time the guests arrived, Javert was thoroughly enamoured, embarrassed and murderous. It seemed like any time he said anything, Grantaire would make it an innuendo. When the boy had decided Javert was non-threatening, Javert didn’t know, but it was frustrating.

“Preparation is key,” Javert told the boys. He was training them to do events alone, without his help. Once the garden was milling with guests and Gillenormand had given them the go-ahead, Javert positioned a boy on either side of the machine, gave them heat-proof gloves and ordered them to remove the pig from the fiery pit. The job was as easy as lifting the metal pole from the lower notch to one higher, from about knee-height to shoulder.

“If you don’t prepare, it will be hard and painful. Are you ready?” he asked Grantaire, who was desperately trying not to look at Enjolras, was an interesting shade of red and was breathing deeply to avoid laughing. “Grantaire?” Javert asked.

“Yep, one second, boss, er-” Grantaire straightened himself and rolled his shoulders. “Ready.”

“Communication is key,” Javert told them. “You must tell each other if you’re in pain or if you can’t handle the load. Grantaire are you listening?”

“Yup, large load, communication.”

Javert sighed, eyes closing momentarily in distrust. “Are you ready?” he asked again, and both of the boys nodded. “Right. Twist, pull and lift.”

Getting it up took longer than was strictly necessary, but they got there eventually. “Grantaire, take your meat thermometer and penetrate the thigh meat. Enjolras, hold it still and taut.” E and R hadn’t breathed for a couple of seconds after that one.

“Enjolras, you must use the blade with long, continuous strokes, you don’t hack at it like you’re furious.” Javert pinched the bridge of nose when both Enjolras and Grantaire started to giggle and decided today wouldn’t be the day they carved. It would mean he wouldn’t have the opportunity to watch Valjean, but it was better than watch this abysmal attempt.

Thankfully once the guests started arriving for food, Grantaire’s mind lifted from the gutter, replaced instead with ‘yes, sir, no, sir, bread, sir, have a nice day, sir.’ Their portion control was on point, the meat was perfectly cooked, and then ran out of nothing. Truly the perfect event.

In the brief breaks between guests, Javert watched Valjean, charming smile on his face as he spun, poured, tasted, served, enthralled, as most of the garden were at some point, by his actions.

Two hours after first serving, they had a tray of meat and cleanly shaved bones left. Javert wiped his knives and put them in a bucket to be cleaned later, eyes still at the back wall. There’d been a piece of crackling that he had been eyeing for the better part of the last hour, and though he had a policy against eating on the job, everyone (by the sounds behind him,) was drunk, happy, and unobservant. He had sent the boys on their break a couple of minutes ago, and knowing those two they’d come back looking thoroughly dishevelled and smelling like cigarette smoke in about twenty minutes.

He picked up the crackling, gave it a cursory blow for good measure and bit. Not a good idea. It had been resting in the flame-heated oil and was incredibly hot.

“Tasting your wares?”

Javert attempted to swallow, feeling the scorching burn as it trailed down his throat. He choked, trying to swallow the bubbling-hot oil before turning and choked again.

It was Valjean again, holding out a glass of water. Valjean watched, glanced at the hog roast and then grinned when Javert ended up looking more embarrassed than hurt.

“I don’t usually- I’m not...” Javert sighed, defeated. He glanced past Valjean’s shoulder but there was no-one watching them and he smiled, picking up a bun. “You want one? There’s plenty left over.”

Valjean blinked, looking like he couldn’t quite comprehend, before putting a hand to his heart. “I’ve been doing this job for years now, and you’re the first person who’s ever asked if I wanted to eat.”

Javert frowned. He got offered a drink by his hosts at every event, even if it was just an option of water, tea or coffee, but he realised a bartender wouldn’t even get that- what would someone surrounded by drink need?

“You haven’t eaten lunch,” Javert observed. “And I doubt you’ll be finished here until long past midnight. You need your energy.” At least Javert would be taking the boys home soon, within the next hour, if not sooner- once they’d carted all of the leftovers into Gillenormand’s kitchen, they wouldn’t be needed. Valjean, however, and Cosette, would be trapped behind the bar until the early hours of the morning if this crowd were anything to go by.

“I couldn’t steal food from the customer,” Valjean said with a small smile. “It was kind of you to offer, though, and I really would have liked to try your meat.”

Javert rolled his eyes. “It’s hardly considered stealing if you’re offered the food. Here.” Javert cut the roll, stuffed it with meat and stuffing, tipped in a spoonful of applesauce and wrapped the whole thing in a napkin. Then he did another, wrapping that, too. “One for you both. Take it in turns to pretend to use the toilet or something.” Javert picked up a spare metal bowl and stuffed the food in, covering it with a stack of unused napkins and a clean-ish rag.

Valjean watched the bundle grow with a bemused tilt of the head, until Javert handed it over.

“Now you have an excuse to be talking to me. I’m letting you borrow equipment you’ve run out of.” Ah, the elaborate schemes one came up with to avoid suspicion in the service industry. This had been a trick he’d seen Grantaire perform a couple of times, when a host was particularly eagle-eyed on what exactly was going on with his money’s worth of food. Javert would usually never accept such an act committed by one of his staff, but he knew Grantaire, had been in his situation. He would rather take a rap on the knuckles for ‘stealing’ food than to have Grantaire starve after a long, physical-labour heavy day.

He’d seen Enjolras do it too, but he had his suspicions about that- he doubted Enjolras ever ate the food himself, instead slipping it into Grantaire’s backpack when the other boy wasn’t looking.

And, well. It wasn’t as if Gillenormand would care, even if he had seen. Javert cast a glance around the garden and saw the old man swaying to the music, looking dazed, drunk and disorderly, but like he was having fun, enjoying himself. He had the feeling Gillenormand was more likely to chuck what remained rather than taking Javert’s advice to stew the leftovers, make pulled pork or pork curry the next day.

He forced the food into Valjean’s hands as Grantaire and Enjolras returned from their break, slowing slightly when they saw the two older men interacting. “Let’s start packing up,” Javert ordered, now ignoring Valjean, who was trying to tell him he couldn’t possibly take the food. “Enjolras, wipe down surfaces and get ferrying. Grantaire, with me.” When he looked back, Valjean had returned to the bar and was putting the bowl underneath it, whispering to Cosette, who smiled, caught Javert’s eye and threw him a thumbs up. Kids these days.

Javert unbolted the pole now bereft of its piggy load, took one side as Grantaire took the other and they lifted it down into the machine. They then piled all of the dirty trays in after, dismantled tables, unplugged sockets, and lowered the gazebo.

The three of them admired their quick handiwork, removing their aprons and pulling out boxes of essentials that they needed to take with them. “We’’ll come to collect it all in the morning,” Javert told them, to which the boys nodded.

“Bagsy not cleaning the oven,” Grantaire hurried, stuffing his apron into his box.

“‘Bagsy’?” Javert asked, before shaking his head. “I don’t want to know. You’ll clean it together.” He’d not left the boys alone together near a hose since the incident, which had involved a lot of wet clothes and an alarming amount of skin on show, but Javert thought the two had probably grown out of their fledgling-relationship dramas. Or at least he hoped, otherwise the new oven might have to be scrapped. He didn’t want to think about what might have touched his last oven.  

“I’ll tell Gillenormand we’re leaving.” The boys shrugged and hovered by the tent, hitting eachother. Javert rolled his eyes.

“Monsieur?” Javert asked as he approached Gillenormand, who appraised him for a second, squinting, and then burst into a wide grin. “Javert! Yes! Good! Everyone has said they were incredibly impressed by your cooking!” Gillenormand grabbed the nearest person towards him, who echoed a “It was fantastic, thank you!” before being shoved away.

“Thank you.” Javert gave a curt nod, standing to attention before the man.

“Now, now, where did I put it…” Gillenormand patted his pockets, “Three of you, three of you… AH!” he pulled out a wad of notes, shaved off three and handed them to Javert in a handshake-like transaction. “You’re leaving now? Have a drink! Take some food!”

“Busy day tomorrow,” Javert excused, pocketing the money. “But thank you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Gillenormand nodded, waved him off and returned to whatever he’d been doing before.

On his way back, Javert took out the money and balked. Three fifty-quid notes. Well the boys would be happy anyway. He handed the two their share, whose expression probably mirrored his. “Good work, boys.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, money already in pocket. “Holy shit rich people are scary.”

Javert allowed himself a snort at that. “One more task and we’ll be gone.” The boys shrugged and Javert made his way through the drunken crowds to the gazebo over, where he flagged down Valjean.

“Could I get your number?” Valjean’s eyes widened, as did Cosette’s, who threw her dishcloth down and disappeared into the crowd, sending a quiet ‘I’m going to collect glasses’ in their direction. Javert realised the misconception and handed over his business card. “We should do events together. Or at least be in contact. I’ve been frequently requested whether we also serve drinks. I assume you have a license that we do not.”

“Oh, right, yes, that would be wonderful!” Valjean took the card and ducked to grab one of his own, also retrieving a pen. “Call my work line to arrange things tomorrow afternoon?”

He handed the card over and Javert inspected the scrawled numbers under the typed text. “And this?” Javert asked, warily.

“That one’s my mobile if maybe you wanted to get a drink some time.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Valjean asked.

“Oh for god’s sake.” Both Valjean and Javert heard the muttered utterance. Enjolras had a hand to his forehead in pain, and Grantaire was looking at his watchless wrist. “He’d love to!”

“He’d love to?” Valjean asked Javert, amused.

Javert set his jaw, eyes squinting at the boys, who were both making ‘speed it up’ gestures in the form of twirling hands and tapped fingers on wrists.

“Yes. Fine.” Admitting it was agonising and Javert knew he would never live it down.

“He said yes, Papa!” Cosette said, emerging from somewhere and patting Valjean on the back.

Valjean held his hand out, and Javert shook it, once again appreciating the strong grip.

“Well,” Valjean said, releasing him.

“Well,” Javert echoed.

“Okay, we’re leaving, come on, old man, flirt tomorrow, we’re tired.” Grantaire and Enjolras descended on Javert, flanking him like body guards.

“Papa, the queue.” Cosette’s eyes flickered to the growing number of chattering guests, some of who were obviously interested in the proceedings, others who were happy to chat with their neighbour. Nobody seemed too impatient quite yet.

“It was nice to meet you all,” Valjean said, waving at the three butchers.

“Hey you’ll have someone to use as an excuse, now,” Grantaire realised, quite loudly as they started to walk. “You know when those old ladies ask for your number. You can say ‘no thank you my huge bear of a boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Grantaire you’re cleaning the oven and the fridge.” Grantaire made to object but Javert just sped up his pace as he heard Valjean snicker. Great, he’d heard both comments then. “You have anything to add?” he asked Enjolras, who just shook his head. “Congratulations, you have a day off.”

-

Valjean turned out to be a great help at the butcher’s. Better than the boys had been, anyway. At one event, the customer had asked for three younger bartenders, and so Javert had swapped E and R for Valjean. He wasn’t sure whether he preferred this arrangement. They were closer, for sure, and it was quite a sight to see his boyfriend in his uniform, Javert’s name branded across Valjean’s chest and back, but though the polo was good for displaying his arms, it wasn’t quite a waistcoat.

When they merged the businesses, they decided Valjean could rotate with the other staff- Cosette turned out to carve well too, delicate and efficient unlike some of the other younger kids Javert employed.

On one memorable occasion after Javert had pulled a muscle and could not carve, but was still determined to work, he was wrapped up in one of Valjean’s shirts and sent into the world to collect glasses. He broke three, got slightly drunk and lost his tie after a not-so-subtle, back-of-the-van make-out session with Valjean.

The next time Javert was injured, he stayed home. He spent the evening antsy and waiting for an emergency call. What he received was a grinning Valjean on their doorstep at three AM with a bottle of vodka, a variety pack of mixers and a very fun night. 

 

 


End file.
